


Hesbwrn

by Lilsi



Category: The Bill (TV)
Genre: Carpenter Luke, M/M, Shepherd Craig, Short mention of battlefield and war, Witch/Healer Gina, Year 1278, language issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24179431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilsi/pseuds/Lilsi
Summary: Luke a carpenter goes to war in Wales rather than marry. After escaping with wounds Craig the Shepherd finds him and helps him recover.
Relationships: Luke Ashton/Craig Gilmore
Kudos: 1





	Hesbwrn

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction was once posted at Craiggilmore.co.uk a fan site no longer active, so to preserve this story and others, I am importing them to AO3. I did not want the loss of such a large amount of amazing and wonderful fanfiction, it would be such a waste to fans of Craig Gilmore and Luke Ashton to not have the opportunity to enjoy these stories as i have. Since the site is no longer active i have been unable to contact the creators but if you happen to be them under a new pen name and want the fiction to be removed please send me a note!
> 
> Story written by - Baxter

Wales, 1278

It’s a little known fact that the first Welsh loving spoon was made by an English man.

It is slightly better known that the Welsh fondness for beer dates from a time when the water in that fair country was largely undrinkable.

*********************

“Oh, go away. I’m sick of arguing with you,” Craig snaps at one of his charges.

“Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” his companion replied.

It is very well known that shepherding for twenty years alone in a field in medieval Wales is enough to drive anyone to the brink of madness. Craig argues and banters with sheep all day; he seldom has the opportunity to argue or banter with anyone else.

I really need to mix more, he thinks morosely, perched on a hill amongst a lush field of buttercups, staring at his flock. Craig is miserably lonely. He has no family, and works long unsocial hours with flocks of sheep. He could have had a wife if he really wanted to, but he could never bring himself to even court a woman, let alone marry her.

Marriage didn’t suit, he broods again on his hill, enduring the playful butts of young male sheep testing their new fuzzy bumps of horns on him.

A nice Welshman, he thinks with shame once again as he absently swats at the persistent young male sheep. That’s all he wants, a nice Welshman.

*******************

“I don’t want to get married,” young Luke Ashton tells his father in London. “I’m a carpenter. All I want to do is make tools and arrows and boxes.” And so he should – he’s learnt his trade well, and he’s very good.

“Then go to war,” his father suggests.

“I don’t want to do that either,” Luke whinges, knowing full well that a skilled arrow maker like himself is likely to be sent pronto as Edward’s troops gather on the border of the two countries.

“Well, son, you have few choices. You can stay here and marry that buxom wench you call Kerry, or travel north and die of the plague like the rest of the country, or you can go down to Wales and die in battle there.”

Luke chooses war. He believes the odds of his survival are better. He packs his favourite tools in his belt, two pieces of silver tied in a cloth to his inner shirt, takes a rough piece of woollen coating because he’s heard it’s cold in Wales, and sets off with the other commoners who are going as arrow fodder for the noblemen.

It’s horrible, war, much worse than he expected. Huge hairy Welsh men with powerful shoulders lay the frail Englishmen flat with arrows; Luke finds himself wedged in between four dead men on a muddy field, covered in their blood, and a curious cold ache in his thigh. He, too, has been hit with a thick splintery arrow. He waits quiet and still amongst the corpses for a long time until the fighting has stopped and the death cries have faded, then he bites his lip hard and pulls the arrow from the muscle and fat.

Ow.

Then he stealthily wriggles his way free from beneath the dead men. One of them jingles as Luke moves his corpse; Luke’s careful fingers find a large leather purse full of silver attached to the man’s coat, close to his heart, and he tears the pouch free.

“Sorry,” he says respectfully, “but I’ll need it more than you.” He ties the pouch close to his chest alongside his other purse.

Then he looks around him at the field of dead and wounded men. The surviving troops have gathered almost a half a mile away; they seem to be retreating. Luke takes this opportunity to retreat himself.

No one notices.

He limps for many miles through the growing dark on his torn aching leg. Eventually he collapses near a stream, feverish with need for a drink, a rest, anything to make the pain go away. He sucks in a couple of handfuls of the fetid water and then passes out.

By dawn several fat interested sheep have gathered around him, bleating.

Craig finds him a short time later as he rounds up the errant sheep. He is so used to being alone it is a shock to see anyone, dead or alive, near a stream with his sheep. He reaches out tentatively to touch the young man’s shoulder and is surprised when Luke groans. Then he’s not sure what to do with him.

“Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” the sheep all advise.

“Shut up,” he says to the sheep. “I’m thinking.”

He decides the decent thing to do would be to take the young wounded man back to his hut.

Craig has a wonderful hut. Shepherds need all the comfort they can get in their dull lives, and the little one room stone house reflects this. It has a dirt floor. In the corner he has laid several layers of hay, and he’s covered the hay with several plush sheepskins, which are in turn covered with many pieces of woven wool and fox skins. It is a sublimely comfortable and warm bed. In the other corner there’s a stone fire that is covered by a long iron plate; a pot of cawl stews over the heat continuously. Close to the fire is a large deep iron bowl. Craig catches rainwater in this, and keeps it by the fire for the luxury of warm water for a wash. There is also a large earthenware jug of beer.

In the room in general there are two chirruping chickens. From time to time rats sneak in and steal their eggs.

“Shut up,” Craig says to the chickens as he drags the delirious Luke into the hut. He lays the young man on the bed.

Luke’s face is hot and slimy; Craig wipes it clean with the wet cloth which he then holds to the pale lips for a few seconds. Little drools of sweat run down his neck and chest, so Craig gently loosens the heavy clothes the young man is wearing. There are small strings of feathers attached to some of Luke’s clothes; Craig wonders if they are decoration or talismans. He fingers them lightly, curious as to why a man would wear feathers on his coat.

He unties the thick belt of tools. They impress him, and he lays them out respectfully on the floor.

Then, for a while, he watches him as he sleeps, occasionally shooing away an opportunistic rat.

Luke’s growing infection and overwhelming exhaustion knock him out for twenty hours.

The Englishman wakes the next morning, sick and frightened, to see a very large bearded man staring at him with deep dark eyes. The chickens are puffed up and comfortable at the end of the bed.

Oh my God, Luke thinks. I’ve been enslaved by a Welsh giant.

Craig fetches a cup of warm beer and holds it to his mouth.

“Thirsty?” he ask the young man.

“Sorry?” Luke says. For he speaks middle English, and Craig speaks middle Welsh.

Bloody English pigdog, Craig thinks. Not a Welshman at all.

Luke takes a sip from the cup and it eases down his gullet like hot wax. Then he slumps back on to the bed in a faint.

Craig regards this, and decides to get some help.

*************************

“I think he’s a deserter,” he tells the local witch.

“Well, so what? Why are you telling me?” she asks, puffing on her pipe. They are sitting in her one room shack amongst fat bunches of drying herbs, small stone dishes of crushed minerals and bones. Outside are there’s a few pots of tallow with which she is making illegal soap. Several black cats wind their way around Craig’s heavy woollen boots.

“Well, Gina, I thought you might help me out and come and make him better, or I could tell the landowner about you and have you burnt at the stake,” Craig suggests.

It’s a compelling argument. Gina gathers her herbs and cloths and they walk the mile back to Craig’s hut. A couple of her cats tag along for the exercise.

She looks Luke over and his screams as she prods his clothed body lead her to believe he is badly wounded. Craig loosens Luke’s rough clothing and exposes the large curiously bloodless stoma-like wound.

“Yuck,” they both say. The exposed flesh is a little crusty, the surrounding skin is positively pink with infection. The arrow pierced and cut muscle and fat, but hardly nicked a blood vessel.

The witch dresses it with a thick fragrant poultice of herbs and vinegar which she covers with a thin sheet of muslin. Her cats make themselves useful, chasing the rats. “Keep this on his leg until the next full moon,” she tells Craig officiously. “Make sure he drinks plenty of this brew.” She holds up a handful of dried herbs in a muslin pouch. “I’m going now. Can I take some eggs?”

“Help yourself,” Craig says gratefully, and it is not until she has gone he realises that she cleaned him out.

Young Luke lays sweaty in the bed for several days, tossing and turning. Craig lays next to him every night, watching the tense smooth body shimmer and shake with infection, listening to the soft calls of pain. Sometimes the shepherd reaches out and gently wipes down the young pale face. He brews the witches herbs and gently strokes the fine tense throat, urging his patient to swallow the tea which smells strongly of garlic.

Now and then the shepherd gets glimpses of Luke’s chest through the folds of his clothes. Not a hair in sight.

Smooth Englishman, Craig chuckles to himself.

***********************

Everyday Craig leaves early to argue with and tend his sheep. He carries the tools his trade – a crook (useful for walking steep hills, testing the depth of streams and prodding sheep who disagree with him) and a small bow and arrow (useful for the occasional rabbit for the cawl, or for knocking over foxes who stalk his sheep). He comes home sometimes with a bunny, sometimes with some wood, sometimes with a headache and sore legs.

One day he catches a fox, spears it straight through the neck and kills it outright with one of his poorly made arrows. He rips the heavy red coat free from the dead animal and takes it home for the young man. Winter’s coming, and he’ll need something warm.

Another day he comes across a dead kestrel. It saddens the shepherd – he likes kestrels – but he plucks a few feathers from it anyway. “The pig dog might like these,” Craig tells the sheep.

And everyday Luke gets a little stronger. By the time he’s sitting up, the poultice now hard and dry on his thigh, autumn is turning to winter. He doesn’t eat much, but is grateful for the tea Craig offers him, and appears to enjoy apples.

A couple of weeks after he dragged him home, Craig comes home to find Luke out of bed, standing by the fire. He has started it himself, the little room is cheerful and warm and the cawl is bubbling.

Luke has just peeled the poultice from his leg. He is staring down at his closed wound when Craig walks in.

“Better?” Craig asks.

“Speak English,” Luke says. “It’s all healed.” He looks at the bald pink scar. “I got hit by an arrow,” he tells Craig, who just stares at him. “Thanks for fixing me up.”  
Luke smiles at the shepherd, who is still staring at him, then down at his thigh. Luke adjusts his clothing with an embarrassed little grin. The shepherd smiles back shyly. 

He hands Luke some more feathers he found near the landowner’s large house. They are possibly from a turkey.

“Thanks,” Luke says. “I can always use feathers.”

Craig nods and looks at Luke closely by the light of the fire. He’s no lamb, Craig decides as he sees the stubble on the pink clear chin, but he’s not mutton either. Something in between.

“Hesbwrn,” Craig smiles at him. Young male sheep. Luke stares at him blankly.

“Speak English,” he advises. Craig smiles at him again, lifting the pot from the fire and gesturing to Luke if he would like some.

It smells good, hot tender rabbit and nicely cooked hunks of vegetable. Luke accepts the invitation silently but graciously.

Shepherds don’t entertain often, so there’s only one bowl and one spoon. Good mannered shepherd that he is, Craig gives his guest the eating utensils and eats with his hand from the pot.

Luke, who has grown up in a crowded filthy shack in rat-infested London with a squalid family and some pigs, is not remotely bothered by this; instead, he is rather flattered by Craig’s good manners in giving him the bowl.

They sleep heavy as the rain falls outside. Luke can feel Craig’s chest rise and fall as he snores softly beside him.

While they find it difficult to have a sensible conversation, they discover they like each other’s company. Craig wonders if the hesbwrn will pack up and leave now that he’s getting stronger.

But Luke likes it in the little stone shack. He doesn’t have to marry anyone, no one wants to kill him and he finds the chickens cute. The next night Craig comes home to find Luke has built the fowl a little nesting shelf from pieces of old tree he’s found around the hut.

“Keeps the rats away from the eggs,” Luke tells him in middle English.

Craig stares at him blankly, and then looks at his chickens snoozing in blissful comfort on their new perch. He nods, impressed and grateful.

“Keeps the rats away from the eggs,” he tells Luke in Welsh.

“Speak English,” Luke says crossly.

“Cranky hesbwrn,” Craig scowls back at him, but his eyes are bright.

**************************

As winter approaches it is important that Craig gathers all the sheep and herds them into the local valley where they will be shielded from the cold and have enough to eat. It is hard work, involving several days trekking to find all the sheep, and several days more to round them in to the valley. And Craig, like all good shepherds, knows that sheep only pretend to be stupid. They are in fact conniving, shrewd and completely indifferent to discipline.

So herding them is hard work.

Luke watches as Craig packs his arrows, some flint, wraps extra blankets around his shoulders and tightens the leather ties around his boots.

“I have to go and gather the flocks,” he tells Luke in Welsh. “I’ll be gone until at least the next new moon.”

“Speak English,” Luke says. “Are you going away?” His quizzical look moves Craig oddly.

“I’ll come back,” he tells him. “There’s enough to eat and the chickens will keep you company.”

Luke looks at him for a long time.

“What?” Craig says.

“I wish you’d learn to speak English,” Luke says, irritated. He’s sad that Craig is going, and assumes he won’t return for a long time.

“Cranky hesbwrn,” Craig frowns playfully. He looks back at Luke, wondering what he’s thinking.

Luke is thinking how red the shepherd’s mouth is. He looks at the soft lips, the heavy dark beard around his face, and the contrasting lips again. And then, not thinking at all, he reaches up and kisses the lips, very softly, just a few seconds worth, and then pulls back slowly as he realises what he’s done.

Craig is shocked. No one has ever kissed him before, although he’s been nuzzled by friendly little lambs on many occasions in the spring. Luke feels completely different to the lambs, and he certainly smells sweeter.

He doesn’t know what to say, and even if he did Luke wouldn’t understand him. So he just looks at him again, wondering what to do. Luke takes this as a sign of encouragement, and reaches up and kisses him again. This time Craig kisses back, very softly, curious more than anything, curious at the strange feel on his lips.

When Luke eases away Craig rests his large hand against his face for a few seconds.

“Well, you’ve been nice to me,” Luke says. “I like it here with you.” He wonders how he could repay the kindness the shepherd has shown him. Then he remembers.

He reaches into his coat and pulls away the two tightly bound purses of silver, tears them open and puts the coins in the shepherd’s hands. Craig eyes bulge when he sees the coins; it’s more money than he has seen his life.

“Arian gleision!” he says to Luke.

“Silver money,” Luke corrects. “Speak English.”

“Diolch i.” Craig smiles his thanks. He pockets the money gratefully then looks at Luke sadly, thinking that the money is final payment before he leaves.

He touches the hesbwrn’s face once more, then turns and walks out the door.

****************************

“It’s not the same without him,” Luke says sadly to the chickens every night. They ignore him completely, because chickens are not interested in small talk.

Luke, strong and healthy now, keeps himself busy. He has decided to wait and see if the shepherd will return. If he doesn’t, Luke plans to stay in the shack and live in Wales. He figures he could sell his arrows and other fine wood crafts through the village once he learnt a bit of Welsh.

I will be a Welshman, Luke decides.

But for the time being, he carries on as if Craig will return. He makes him lots of new arrows, smarter, sleeker faster arrows than the badly shaped kind Craig has fashioned for himself. Luke’s arrows have sharp perfectly symmetrical tips, and pieces of feather at the tail so they fly longer when they are shot.

He gathers heavy old dry logs and carves three new spoons and three new bowls. He keeps the cawl going, adding pieces of salted rabbit, fresh chunky slices of leek and pieces of turnips as needed. He has some nuts, apples and the last of the summer berries to keep his sugar up.

And he has an occasional visitor.

“How’s your leg?” Gina cackles from the doorway one cold clear day. She is holding a ceramic beaker, large and rough.

Luke nearly screams. He has never seen a witch before.

“Who are you?” he asks. But that’s as far as they get – Gina doesn’t speak English any more clearly than Craig.

After much gesticulating and snarling, it transpires she wants to swap the beaker of new milk for some eggs. This turns out to be an agreeable deal, for that night Luke learns the pleasure of scrambled eggs and cawl.

She comes back a few times over the coming weeks. He gives her eggs; she brings milk and gives him some valuable knowledge that will stand him in good stead when Craig comes home.

At night he lies on the lonely bed, wrapped in his fox skin, and carves a special spoon, for when Craig returns.

***********************

“Shut up,” Craig says to the sheep that are hanging around as he tries to sleep under a large yew. It is cold and dark; his fire is petering and he’s hungry. The sheep are annoying him on purpose.

He wonders once more about the hesbwrn, the first person he has ever kissed. Craig misses him, thinks about him all the time. It is likely he will have gone by the time he returns, the lonely shepherd thinks sadly, once more touching his lips in the quiet night.

During the day he trudges through the sodden fields, along the edges of forests, gathering the sheep, counting his steps with each thud of his crook.

When he finds a feather, he picks it up, carefully smooths it clean, and lays it flat in the wrap in which he carries his arrows.

***********************

It is seriously cold by the time Craig is close to home. The sheep are finally safe and sound in the valley, and now he has just one more stop to make before he gets back to his hut.

He heads for the market place in the centre of the village, where a man with some silver coins can strike himself a few fabulous bargains for the winter ahead.

It is a cold rainy Saturday night when he finally comes back to his home. He can see the fire glowing from hundreds of yards away, and it warms his heart in more way than one because it means his hesbwrn will still be there.

But when he steps inside, the hesbwrn is nowhere to be seen. The room though, is warm and tidy and cheery; Craig can see the new bowls and spoons stacked neatly near the fire, a small wooden box filled with fresh eggs in a nest of new hay and a perfectly hollowed log standing upright. Inside the log there are seven new arrows with neat feather tails.

And, behind him, the hesbwrn walks through the door, his arms full of wood and bracken to keep the fire going and the cawl hot. They smile at each other with genuine welcome in their eyes.

“Croesawu, bugau,” Luke says, smiling.

Craig’s brows rise in delighted surprise.

“Cymraeg?” he smiles at him. He speaks Welsh!

Luke nods. Craig tilts his head, questioning, wondering how he learnt to say welcome shepherd.

“Dewines,” Luke tells him as he stacks the wood near the fire.

Ahhh. The witch. Well, she’d have to be good for something besides stealing my eggs.

Luke has learnt a few other important words. “Cyw,” he says, pointing to the chickens, sleeping on their shelf. “Cail,” he says, pointing outside towards the flock of sheep. “Wy,” as he indicates the eggs. “Lllygoden fawr,” as a rat scuttles across the floor.

“Cusanu,” Craig says softly. Cusanu has been on his lips for weeks. Luke is not yet familiar with the word, but he recognises the look on Craig’s face, and he happily obliges, reaching up and kissing the cold lips. The responses is more considered this time, they kiss, they rub their bearded cheeks together, pull their faces in closer together with their hands and rest their arms around each other’s shoulders.

“Cusanu,” Luke whispers after a few minutes when he understands the Welsh word for kiss.

***********************

The shepherd has not returned empty handed. Apart from the feathers, he has got some pork, some flour and grains, oatcakes, some preserved fruits in earthen ware jars, a bit of salt, some turnips, lots of leeks, plums, carrots, apples, beetroot, caraway seeds, tallow and butter.

Enough good food to see them well into winter.

He’s also bought Luke a coat, slightly different to the one he’s wearing, one that will assure that, should the villagers chose to perform a human sacrifice of an English pigdog, Luke would not be the most obvious candidate.

“Thank you,” Luke says when he tries on the new garment. It’s warm and heavy and smells of soil and smoke. Comforting.

Craig smiles at him. “Cusanu,” he says.

“Fair trade,” Luke agrees, and kisses him again. When Craig seems reluctant to cease the trade in cusanu, Luke points to the bubbling cawl.

“Stew,” he says.

Craig disagrees. “Cusanu,” he insists, dabbing the English mouth with his own.

“Eat first, cusanu later,” Luke suggests, pulling away. “And look,” he says, pulling out the new bowls, “we can both have a bowl now.” Before Craig can resume cusanu trade talks, Luke produces the spoons, including the one he made especially.

It is a little larger than the other spoons, a good sized spoon for a large adult male who eats a hearty meal every night. The stem of the spoon is a beautifully carved feather, while the scooped belly of the spoon is artfully fashioned in the shape of a sheep. If Luke were able to read or write in any language, he would have incorporated Craig’s name on it.

“But I don’t know your name,” he tells Craig, who is staring with admiration at his new spoon. No one has ever given him a present before. 

They are quiet while they eat, a little shy and awkward. Afterwards they have the treat of small oatcakes with their beer, and then, by joyful mutual agreement, the opportunity for a night of cusanu.

************************

For those who lived in stone shacks in medieval Europe, going to bed fully dressed was not just a convenient option but a necessity in order to keep out the cold. Both men had slept side by side rugged head to toe for several weeks; Craig only ever shed his heavy garments in the high months of summer.

Now, though, they’re willing to risk a bit of chill to touch properly.

It’s an odd thing, to hold someone close and kiss when you’ve never done it before. Not that either man hadn’t considered it – Craig has wondered for years what it would be like to hold another man; Luke had supposed glumly that he would end up holding the buxom wench Kerry for the term of his natural life before the more appealing prospect of war intervened.

But neither have ever actually done it, so they’re shy and unsure to start, wondering how firm or how gently to hold each other. They work it out bit by bit, lying side by side on the warm soft bed. Initially they’re surprised and excited by the feel of each other, then hotly curious about each other’s body, and then realise that handling one another comes naturally. This makes them greedy for their own pleasure, which in turn they find enhanced by witnessing the pleasure they bring each other.

“Esmwyth,” Craig murmurs against Luke’s chest as he gently moves the heavy cloth shirt away from the skin. Smooth. He strokes carefully with gentle fingers, fascinated by the fine texture, intoxicated by the taste of the hesbwrn.

“Furry,” Luke answers, as he runs his hand over Craig’s breast, through the dark sprigs of hair, over the pale skin. Craig takes his breath in sharply.

“Cyffwrdd,” Craig whispers to him, taking Luke’s hand and easing it down his body. “Cyffwrdd.” Touch. His breath grows heavy as Luke touches him gently, watching the pleasure creasing over the shepherd’s face as he strokes him.

“Cusanu,” Luke answers, gasping as Craig’s hand seeks to touch him the same way, pushing the clothes off his body, his breath hard and moist against Luke’s face as he kisses him randomly, then grunting and pressured as he whispers in his ear, crying out when he comes, husky and gentle when he’s slowed down. He’s mesmerised when Luke comes hoarse and smiling, his face tipped back, Craig ‘s hand on him tight and fast, his other arm wrapped right around him.

“Lovely,” they tell each other in their own language. “You’re just lovely.” They’re less shy now, confident in each other, frankly curious about the taste and touch of their bodies. Craig whispers to Luke in Welsh, straddles him into his lap so he can run his hands down the length of his back, tuck his hands around his thighs, lightly stroke the bald white scar.

And Luke kisses all over Craig’s throat, gently biting the strong tendons in his neck, cups his face and kisses both eyebrows then the thin delicate eyelids, delicately strokes his tongue with his own as they savour the hot silky wetness of each other’s mouths. 

They taste and stroke every inch, holding hands, whispering intimate encouragement to each other when they come again, comfortable together as they relax afterwards, the room still warm from the fire. They lay close, face to face, lazily kissing fingertips and smiling as they try to exchange conversation.

“You are called?” Luke asks him in the Welsh Gina has taught him.

“Craig.” He taps against Luke’s chin, indicating he’s like to know his name too. “You?”

“Luke.”

“Luc! Santes Luc!” For all good shepherds know the gospels.

“Just Luke.”

Craig says the name again softly, touching the hesbwrn’s temples and cheeks with his lips. Luke. It seems to Craig to be the nicest name in the world.

“Now I’ve learnt some Welsh, you have to learn some English,” Luke says. Craig stares at him blankly. Even if he understood he’d refuse.

“Cusanu,” he suggests instead, marking Luke’s face with gentle little kisses.

“Kiss.” Luke kisses the tip of his nose to illustrate his point.

“Cusanu,” Craig insists.

“Kiss,” Luke says firmly.

Craig kisses his mouth, soft and tender. “Cusanu,” he tells Luke with closed eyes, their faces touching.

“Cusanu,” Luke agrees finally. He figures wisely that he won’t win this one, so he waits for Craig to open his eyes so he can tell him the last Welsh phrase he knows.

“Myfieislau gallu Cymro.” Luke stumbles a bit on it, but Craig understands him perfectly. I want to be a Welshman. 

Craig gathers the young man into his arms, satisfied and very content. They’re drowsy now, drifting off to sleep amongst the furs and wools, settled in together.  
Luke drops off first, breathing light and shallow against the shepherd who smiles as he watches over him.

Sleep tight, Luke bach, he says softly. I may not be able to turn you in to a Welsh man, but I’ll do everything to ensure you remain this Welsh man’s.


End file.
